Page 10 of Carrick
The nausea came fast and sharp. I swallowed it down, then sat up slowly, letting the unfamiliar mattress shift beneath me. The room was warm, soft, almost too still. Clean sheets.Fresh linen. But none of it felt right. There were no bars on the windows, yet I’d never felt more confined. I didn’t live here. I didn’tbelonghere. I belonged to the fear now.
I dressed in silence, pulling on leggings and a black hoodie like armor. My hands shook as I twisted my curls into a bun. No makeup. No mirror. I didn’t need to see my own eyes to know what lived behind them.
The voices down the hall were louder now. Closer.
Life didn’t stop just because mine had changed.
“Jax, for the love of all things good and holy,” Maddy snapped, “if you mansplain espresso ratios to me one more time?—”
“I’m just saying,” Jax replied with maddening calm, “a proper extraction depends on water temperature, not just brute force?—”
“It’s fucking coffee, not a chemistry dissertation!”
“You’re both wrong,” Carrick’s voice cut in—smooth, lazy, and far too amused for before 9 AM. “The sludge Sully makes can melt concrete, but it gets the job done.”
“I’ll melt your face,” Maddy muttered.
A chuckle followed. “Promises, promises.”
God help me.
I stepped into the kitchen doorway and was immediately hit with a sensory barrage. The homey scent of some kind of pastry filled the air, alongside the smell of breakfast sausage and loud bickering. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, bathing the sleek countertops and rustic cabinets in gold. The space was too homey for what it was—a covert fortress. Every surface gleamed with intentional care. Polished, but not showy.
The talking stopped.
Every head turned to me.
I stood there, shoulders square, spine straight, pretending I wasn’t unraveling on the inside.
Maddy sat cross-legged on the island, mug in hand. Jax leaned over a laptop, surrounded by an explosion of color-coded notes. Sully stood at the stove, clad in a floral printed apron, pulling a fresh batch of scones out of the oven like a Michelin-starred lumberjack. Deacon, tall and quiet, watched from the corner, arms folded. And Carrick?—
Carrick lounged like a wolf in a den, one ankle propped over a knee, golden eyes dragging over me with far too much heat for this early in the morning.
“Morning,” Sully said kindly. “You have a problem with gluten?”
“Do I look like someone who’s picky?” I replied, voice scratchy.
“Well, better to be safe than sorry,” he said. “You look like you could use five plates of breakfast.”
Maddy raised her mug. “Welcome to hell. We serve coffee and sass.”
I stepped into the kitchen, footsteps too loud in the uneasy quiet. Sully slid a plate toward me—scones slick with butter and jam, sausage links stacked beside cut fruit—and I sat down at the farthest end of the island, instinctively avoiding Carrick’s orbit. I was starving, but the first bite caught in my throat like guilt. My brother might be out there dying, and I was here, eating with men who joked too loud and tried too hard to pretend we were safe. Still, the food was good. Offensively good. And somehow, that made it worse.
“You cooked this?” I asked, swallowing thickly.
Sully grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“This is…” I paused, chewing slowly. “Disturbingly excellent.”
“Cooking is my love language,” he said.
Carrick chuckled. “So are death threats.”
Maddy leaned toward me, eyes twinkling. “I’m still not sure which one applies when he makes me protein pancakes.”
“I can kill you with kindness or a cast-iron skillet,” Sully said, far too sweetly.
I blinked at him. “Remind me never to make you mad.”
